Okay, clearly I could go on and on with the ways this family could possibly get rid of me.
My fingers currently played one of my favorites, and I wondered if Mike or Sylvester knew what it was or who it was by originally. Ever since I was young, I had an unhealthy obsession with the oldies; the music was cleaner back then, simpler and sweeter, the voices made of honey. I loved it, I did. That wasn’t to say the music of today didn’t hit me, but nothing gave me the chills like good ole Frankie.
“You play really well,” Sylvester noted, watching me. “I don’t think this piano has seen this much use in years.” A pause before he added, “It’s nice, hearing someone play on it.”
Mike leaned on a wall nearby, his arms crossed, but I spotted him nodding, as if in agreement.
“I had piano lessons for years,” I said. “The ability has always stuck with me, I guess.” My fingers moved upon the ivory keys in a flourish, at one with the melody they played. “I haven’t touched one since I left home.”
Sylvester drew his hands out of his pockets, leaning on the backside of the big, black piano as he leveled his blue stare at me. His blonde hair looked a bit long, like it needed a cut, but all in all, he was still as handsome as ever. “Why did you leave home? Why didn’t you go to school or something?”
I could’ve made a joke about how I realized I had the sudden urge to kill, but that wouldn’t be the truth, anyways. Plus, it would only remind him about his brother who I’d murdered, so I figured it was best to avoid saying anything like that.
“I had no choice,” I said. Technically, I supposed I could’ve stayed, but I bet I knew where that would’ve led me: in a mental institution, with only one person as my visitor. He would’ve kept me out of jail, because then he’d have no access to me.
No, he would’ve blamed it on some mental issue I had—which was true, I had a lot of them—but it wasn’t a disorder. It wasn’t something I was born with. It was from the trauma of all those years of—
My fingers messed up on the keys, not hitting the next right notes. Fuck. I always fucked up when I thought about him.
“Where did you come from, Lola?” Sylvester’s question was eager, and I could tell just by looking at his face he was genuinely curious about me, my past, what made me into the person I was today.
I spoke the truth without actually telling the truth: “Hell.”
Sylvester turned to glance at Mike, and I resumed playing. He would get no more out of me today. That was enough sharing. Clearly, I never did well in kindergarten, never learned how to share properly, how to let anyone in.
It was right then Maddox waltzed in, looking like he wanted to strangle me. So, the usual expression for Maddox. He wore a shirt whose top two buttons were undone, showing off his collar bone and the tattoos on his chest. He never wore any undershirts, and I couldn’t help but let my mind wander off and imagine how sexy he’d be fully nude.
Maybe one of these days I’d get lucky and see him stark naked.
He must’ve heard what I said, for as he sauntered to his brother’s side, he muttered, “Oh, I don’t believe that. Look at you. I bet you came from money.” Maddox sent a smirk to his brother before rounding the piano and leaning over me, whispering, “The way you hold yourself, the way you look at everyone—you didn’t come from hell. Hell doesn’t make them like you.”
I was slow to turn my face and meet his eyes. His top half was bent over, less than half a foot away from me, so close I could feel his breath when he exhaled. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to bite his lip again—except this time, I wanted to fucking tear it off.
So, because I didn’t know when to leave things be, I hissed out, “If I came from heaven, I don’t think I would’ve killed your baby brother—” A hand shot out, curling around my neck, and I laughed.
His grip tightened, and he was seconds from slamming my head down on the keys when Sylvester reached him and tore him off me. “Maddox,” he said, pushing him away.
“What?” he hissed, pointing at me. “The bitch said—”
“You made an assumption about me that was wrong,” I cut in, earning a concerned glance from Sylvester and a furious one from Maddox. Mike, to his credit, only appeared semi-interested in the conversation. “You think you’re the baddest shit to ever walk this town? You think keeping me here, making me do whatever you want, is hell? You could tie me up and peel my skin off inch by inch, and you know what? It still wouldn’t be as bad as the place I grew up in.”
My fingers were tense now, hovering over the keys. I wanted to play, I wanted to release the pent-up anger inside of me, but I didn’t know how. A piano wouldn’t fix it. I’d tried for years to become someone new, and right now I wondered if it was just too much, if I could never truly let it go.
“Mommy and daddy had an angel,” I whispered, my eyes falling to my hands. Seconds ticked by, and for a moment, my hands were coated in blood, covered in bright red goo, wet and warm and drippy. And then, in the next moment, the vision of bloodied hands was gone. “But it wasn’t me.”
Because I didn’t want to answer any of the questions Sylvester would surely ask at that, because I couldn’t bring myself to meet Maddox’s furious stare, I closed my eyes after setting my fingers on the correct keys, restarting the same song I’d been playing before.
Only this time… this time I did something I hadn’t done in years.
This time I sang.
I didn’t do the song as much justice as old Frankie did, but I liked to think I did it well. My voice was smooth, effortless, the kind of voice everyone who sang alone in the car thought they had, the kind of voice you could feel in your soul.
What song? It was quite apropos, considering.
Frank Sinatra’s I’ve Got You Under My Skin.
In a perfect world, in a world where helpless girls were not hurt again and again by those who were closest to them, I’d love singing. I would sing every day, whenever I could. I would share my musical gift with the world, swallow everyone in my melody, but this was far from a perfect world, which was why I never sang anymore.
Why sing when the honeyed voice only brought devils to your door?
I might’ve run through every single Frankie song I knew, and that was a lot, let me tell you. I kept my eyes closed, fighting the emotions threatening to rise inside of me, my past trying to push out and take hold of me. I ignored Sylvester’s questions and anything else Maddox said. I tuned out the world and tried to get a hold of myself as I sat there on that piano bench.
Why did everything feel like too much now? Why did my past and my memories keep coming back with a vengeance I couldn’t turn away from? Why could I still feel those hands, picture those eyes… why did I still feel like that little girl, used and abused?
By the time I opened my eyes, my voice was sore. My voice was sore, Maddox and Sylvester were gone, and Viper had taken Mike’s place. The outside world had darkened, and though my stomach was hungry for dinner, I still didn’t feel quite right.
I dropped my hands off the piano, letting them fall to my lap as my shoulders drooped. Viper was by my side the next moment, offering me a glass of water. I was measured in taking it, flicking my eyes up at him in thanks as our fingers touched.
“For what it’s worth,” he told me, “you do have a beautiful voice.” Once my hand safely gripped the cup, his arm dropped to his side and he moved to stand a few feet away, giving me distance.
Maybe I should’ve thanked him, but I didn’t. I couldn’t really say anything, instead sticking to my silence as I took a sip from the cup.
Little did I know that someone had heard me sing, and that someone would want me to sing again.
Chapter Twelve – Richard
Some might find it difficult to keep an eye on the city, on the comings and goings of its people, on the dealings we had with so many others. The bribes, the threats, the favors, the killings—the list could go on and on, and even then, the work was never done. There was always something more that co
uld be done, another foolish idiot who thought he could stand against us.
Usually I sent Roman and Carter to deal with the people who we could not threaten to back down, the ones who needed a more permanent solution. The girl—Lola, her name was—would be good for operations that didn’t require such finality.
Sylvester had told me how she’d performed. She’d done well instilling fear into her mark, and she’d taken a bat to him to remind him of his place with no hesitation. He’d told me she looked as if she’d had fun while doing it.
She probably did. She was the Night Slayer, supposedly, the killer of men in the night. She’d killed a good number of men in this city, my youngest son included, and for that, I hated her more than I’d ever hated anyone else.
It wasn’t that she’d killed other people, but Mario? Mario was a good boy. He wasn’t a fan of what this family did, so he tried to go off on his own. Every now and then I’d bring him back, try to make him realize that without us, he was nothing, just another face in the crowd, but he never seemed to care.
And now he was dead, a pile of ashes in the gilded urn sitting on the edge of my desk in my office.
That was why I hadn’t given her another job. Why would I want to give her something she would enjoy doing? Sylvester had clearly been blinded by her looks, or something of the sort, because every time I brought her up, he jumped to her defense, as if he was her personal savior.
Don’t make me laugh. Or shout. It was ridiculous in every way.
The more I thought about it, the more I agreed with Maddox. Now, Maddox often did things without thinking, it was true. He was the bull instead of the calculating man I’d tried to teach him to be. Usually I did not agree with his way of doing things—and I’d so much as said so the last time we spoke, after he’d been gone for days and worried me to no end—but as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I wanted that girl dead.
I was smart about it, knowing we could use her for something, but I wanted her dead all the same. I wanted to hear her screams rise through the night air, to make her personally regret ever laying a finger on my son. I wanted to hurt her in all the ways she’d hurt me by making me lose my youngest.
I hated her. I truly did. I didn’t think I’d ever hated someone so much before—other than Bianca, but that was a whole different can of worms, there. Bianca, the boys’ mother, was long gone out of this house. It’d been years since then, and yet some days it still felt like yesterday.
Time itself seemed to drag on slowly, crawling along, probably because that girl was living under my roof, eating my food, breathing my air, among other things. I wasn’t stupid. I knew both Maddox and Sylvester had been with her, and I knew they’d continue their dalliance with her until she was dead. It was pointless of me to try to stop them from wetting their cocks in her, so I simply turned away from it.
Let them make their own mistakes, right? Only… that was the reason I let Mario go, why he had his own place. Why he was now dead.
Fuck it all. This wishy-washy mentality I’d had ever since allowing that girl into my house was annoying.
I stalked through the house, quietly furious, my normal mood since Lola had made herself at home here. My suit felt tight, snug on my body, almost suffocating, although I supposed that could be the pressure I constantly felt—the pressure to keep the balance, to keep the Lucianos above the DeLucas and remind everyone in this town who they owed their allegiance to. Us, not them. It was enough pressure to crack any lesser man, but I was no lesser man.
I was Richard Luciano, the head of the family, and I was the be-all, end-all where Lola was concerned. I truly wanted her dead, but logically, I knew killing her would be a waste. There were always instances when having someone expendable came in handy, and I would much rather throw her to the wolves than Carter or Tony or Viper.
Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was the whole reason she was here, but as I stalked through the hall, I heard the faintest sound. My feet stopped, and I tilted my head, trying to hear it better. Too soft; I needed to get closer.
I came upon the room where I kept the grand piano, though I stopped myself from barging in. From what it sounded like, both my sons were in the room, as was her guard and, of course, Lola herself.
Because that was her, making that sound. She was singing and playing the piano.
And, more surprisingly, she was doing them both quite well, almost like she was made to perform.
I stood near the archway, moving to lean my back upon the wall as I listened, my eyes rising to the ceiling. Her voice was soft but strong, the kind of voice that knew when to bellow out the melody and when to whisper it, smooth and sweet like velvet. It flowed over me, forced me to close my eyes in spite of myself.
A voice like that… it was heaven sent. Heaven sent and attached to a demon who wore a pretty face. A voice like that could whisper lies and truths in the same sentence and you’d be none the wiser. It was a tone, a timbre I could listen to for hours on end, even if it came from the girl who’d killed Mario.
And then it hit me, what I could use Lola for.
Pushing off the wall, I walked away from her, listening to her voice become fainter and fainter as more distance grew between us. I waited until I got to my office, shut the door and sat down at my desk before pulling out my phone and giving Roman a call.
The man answered within two rings; he was always at my disposal, ready to leap into action. This time… if things went how I wanted them to, he wouldn’t be the one who’d need to leap. “Richie,” he spoke. “Got another job?”
“Maybe,” I said, leaning back in my chair. Its leather was worn, but it was comfortable. My office was nothing but dark wood and equally dark walls, the lighting dim. “Didn’t you mention a new club was opening up on the other side of town?”
“Yeah,” his low voice grunted. “Word on the street is it’s a front for the DeLucas.”
The DeLucas would never deal in the type of club the younger sect of the city loved going to, the ones where they drank and danced the night away—the type of club where Lola marked my son as her next target. No, this type of club was something more elegant, the kind where its patrons smoked cigars and diamonds studded the ears of every woman there.
“The job I have is for Carter, not you,” I said, and I knew right then and there I had his full attention. Everyone knew Roman; he’d been with me for years now. Carter was less well-known; if he shaved his face, cut his hair and dressed nice, he’d be unrecognizable… and perfect for what I’d need him for.
“Don’t tell me you want to send him over there. If they even suspect he’s one of us, they’ll kill him.”
“Then he best be careful,” I warned. I was not one to send off someone to die, but I had faith in Carter. He’d been under Roman’s guidance for years, though not as many years as Roman had been under mine. He was the best enforcer I had; I didn’t do this lightly, but after hearing Lola sing and play, it was perfect.
Roman never asked unless it was important. This time, it was, for he said, “Why? Why send Carter to the club?”
Silence overtook me, for I didn’t want to tell him the reason. Alas, beating around the bush wasn’t my forte. “I heard the girl singing,” I spoke after a while. “She sounds like an angel. If we can get her in the club as entertainment, we’ll have our way in.”
“You trust her to do this?”
My jaw ground, and I bit out, “No, but if I have to sacrifice someone, it’ll be her. Besides, Carter will be with her anytime she performs. Her talent agent or something like that. He can watch her to make sure she doesn’t turn.”
Roman let out a sigh. It was a sigh of defeat, for he knew nothing he said would change my mind. This was the plan, and no matter what happened, this was what we would do. “All right. I’ll tell him. When do you want him to go down there?”
“As soon as he can. I want Lola singing on opening night.” That might not be possible, but I didn’t care. I’d have Lola there every night, keeping watch on those
fuckers. All dolled up, she’d be unrecognizable. Only that realtor had seen her, and I doubted he’d be in the mood to talk to any of his DeLuca clientele about what happened to him.
If he knew what was good for him, that was. If he did decide to talk, well, I’d send Roman to rid the world of him.
I hung up without saying anything more. Roman would call back to update me once there was more to it.
Sending Lola to the other side of town, to where our power was the weakest, it was better than killing her in cold blood. At least she would be used. That’s all she was here for, anyway; to be used until we could no longer use her.
I almost smiled to myself at how perfectly it had all fallen into place.
Chapter Thirteen – Lola
My mood was foul, and I didn’t keep it to myself. I glared at Sylvester, feeling the need to destroy something, to hurt someone, maybe even myself. Hell, nothing was off the table right now, because I was fucking pissed.
He’d come to me right before bed—I’d thought for some hanky-panky-spanky, but no, it had to be for work. My next job for this stupid fucking family.
Daddy Luciano had sent Carter to some new club, I guess, and I had an audition to try out to be one of the club’s singers. Yes, you heard that right: a singer. Daddy Luciano wanted me to sing for the enemy, and frankly I didn’t know what was worse—the fact that he thought he could just use my voice however the fuck he wanted, or the fact that Sylvester didn’t understand why it made me so upset.
“All you’re doing is singing,” he said. “That’s it. It’s really not as big of a deal as you’re making it.”
Oh, that face. That cute, ridiculously handsome face—I could wipe the floor with it right now and not feel bad about it. To say I glared at him was an under-exaggeration; I tore him apart with my stare, piece by piece until he was nothing but torn, bloodied limbs in my head. I killed him a thousand times in my brain, and then I put him back together and killed him a thousand more.
Shadowed Heart: A Dark Reverse Harem Romance (A Death So Sweet Book 1) Page 18
